


Contrasts

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Future Fic, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My queen,” she says in mild surprise, and gives a polite bow. “I had thought you abed.”</p><p>Sansa beckons to her, suddenly eager for her touch. </p><p>(A queen and her knight, in the aftermath of an attack.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrasts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ASOIAF kink meme. Prompt: _Brienne is so gentle in private. Sansa is surprised by this, but loves it all the same._ You can imagine this taking place in the same future universe as [Integrated Honey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1902387), if you’d like.

Hours later, and she can still hear the singing of hot steel, the clash of iron, the smell of blood and the stark contrast of it against the melting snow. Sansa is no stranger to battle, having been on the edges of dozens of them, heard the screams of the dying and the victorious alike. But battles like these are always different. At Blackwater, at the Bloody Gate, on the banks of the Riverlands… no one had been trying to personally kill _her_.

After their party arrives back at Winterfell, it is a few hours more before she can get some time to herself. She must look in on the wounded, meet with her advisors, give an account of the attack, brief her siblings and her wards. She is then obliged to spend a quiet hour with Arya, who had said nothing, but sits with rage simmering in her eyes. It only placates her to know that Brienne, Asha and the others had been there to protect her.

These and other queenly duties dispensed with, Sansa takes her leave of the group. Briefly, she considers going off in search of her Lady Commander, who had disappeared after their meeting, but she knows well enough by now that Brienne likes to be alone for a while after death, to clear her mind and cleanse her thoughts. Instead, Sansa stations a small guard at the gates of the godswood, and makes a firm beeline towards the hot pools.

She slips out of her heavy furs, and the light bite of late winter only troubles her for a moment before she sinks naked into the soothing warm water.

Immediately, the heat starts seeping into her flesh, drawing out the dust from the road, the cold from the air, the tension of a day fraught with fear and panic. Sansa leans back, letting the water embrace her with its silvery arms, and allows herself to think back on it.

She had known, of course, that there were still bands of Bolton loyalists roaming the North, leaderless and purposeless. It had been Arya’s pet project; she would take three or four of her most trusted warriors on stealthy rides into the Wolfswood, or along the banks of the White Knife, and ferret out dozens of the outlaws at a time. Sansa had never imagined that they would be so bold or so organised as to launch an attack on a heavily guarded party in broad daylight.

A bold attack, yes, but ultimately a short, unsuccessful one. As luck would have it, Asha Greyjoy is here on a visit from Pyke, and had accompanied Sansa to Hornwood and back; she and her ex-reavers fought like nothing most northmen had ever seen. Lyra and Jorelle, Sansa’s not-so-little bears, were terrors with their morningstars, and the rest of her guard were in excellent form.

And there was Brienne; big beautiful Brienne, weaving through the outlaws and cleaving them asunder with single handed blows. To know her in battle is a wonderful and terrible thing; she is always calm and utterly focused, and this morning, at least a dozen men had fallen beneath the serene brutality of her sword. Only one of them had breached the protective circle, grabbed at the reins of Sansa’s horse, but Brienne had dealt him a blow to the stomach, and he had fallen and lain still.

Sansa shudders, and splashes her face with soothing water. The hatred in that man’s eyes is not something she will soon forget.

The soft crunch of footsteps on snow shakes her out of her thoughts. A large shadow moves just beyond the white arms of the heart tree, and Sansa instinctively dips into the water, covering her bosom. A moment later, she is straightening with a wan smile, as Brienne appears in the clearing, dressed warmly and armourless.

“My queen,” she says in mild surprise, and gives a polite bow. “I had thought you abed.”

Sansa beckons to her, suddenly eager for her touch. “I am no child, ser, to take to bed in the middle of the day.” 

Brienne settles behind her at the edge of the pool, atop the furs, and curves her hands onto Sansa’s shoulders. Sansa stays perfectly still to see what she might do. Large hands that had so lately dealt death and pain gather up her hair, clearing it away from her nape so that gentle lips can secure a little crop of sweet kisses there, lighter than air. Sansa sighs, feeling as if she could turn liquid and float away, one with the water.

“True,” Brienne agrees, and the next feathery kiss is for her neck. “But you should rest all the same, my queen. You also went through quite an ordeal this morning.”

“No more so than everyone else.” Sansa leans to the side, barely daring to breathe as Brienne’s hands move to her upper arms, and a kiss even gentler than all the ones that came before is pressed onto the underside of her chin. More tension seeps out of her bones. “This is quite restful. This evening we will have to come up with a strategy to deal with whatever rebels may remain. No sense in napping now.”

“Allow me to most respectfully disagree.” But she doesn’t push the subject. Her fingers gently massage Sansa’s arms and shoulders, with something that must be less than a tenth of her strength, but still manages to be just forceful enough. “But you are all right, yes?”

“Yes, yes, sweetling, I am well.” Sansa takes one of her big hands to kiss it quickly. “Not a scratch on me. The ambush was certainly unexpected, but they will not shake me so easily.”

It is not entirely truthful; she _was_ somewhat shaken. But it is hard to feel so anymore, with Brienne’s arms bracketing her carefully. Brienne kisses her neck again, and Sansa smiles.

“And what of you?” she asks. “Are you quite well?”

She has always known that Brienne finds no pleasure in taking lives; it was one of the things that had first convinced Sansa to take her as her sworn shield.

“I am, not to worry, my queen.” She sounds it; her voice is as mellow and composed as always. “And the injuries among the men are not too grave. Lady Asha has my profound gratitude; we may have been well outnumbered, if not for her and her men.”

“We owe her a great debt,” Sansa agrees. “And I, as always, owe a great debt to you.”

She turns to look behind her when there is no immediate reply, and is charmed to see that Brienne is fighting back a blush. She knows Brienne’s nature better than anyone else, but it is always a surprise to see how quickly she exchanges the mantle of an experienced, blood-stained knight for that of a sweet innocent. Her gentle beauty.

“You owe me nothing, my queen,” she replies at last. Another kiss, this one as soft and beautiful as the dusk, cresting upon her cheek. “I pledged you my sword and my life; you have them always.”

Her words are as tender as her actions this morning had been fierce.

“And you have _me_ always.”

For reply, she gets one more kiss, on the top of her head. Sansa relaxes into Brienne’s embrace and her massaging fingers, letting the hot water and the ministrations of her Lady Commander ease her thoughts away, leaving her mind in blank bliss.

Several minutes pass before Brienne breaks the silence.

“Are you cold, my queen?”

“Mmm?” It sounds more like a moan than it ought to. “Not at all, sweetling, the water is quite hot.”

“Then, ahh…” 

Brienne smiles against her cheek. For the first time this afternoon, her hands dip beneath Sansa’s collarbone. Her breasts, hovering just above the water line, find themselves being cupped by heavy hands, and Sansa understands when she flicks her thumbs softly over Sansa’s hard, pointed nipples.

She chuckles, breathless, and throws her head back. Brienne’s cheeks are ruddy red in the cold, and she keeps palming at Sansa with gentle insistence. 

“Perhaps I _am_ a bit chilled after all, ser. You can come in, if you like, warm me up.”

Brienne glances off in the direction of the gate, and shakes her head.

“I think I might be able to help you from right here, my queen.”

And oh, how she does. Each callus on her fingers seems like a kiss. Where another’s touch might be rough, she is kind; where another might be gentle she is achingly so, touching Sansa so lightly it could be a dream. She reinvents the word ‘slow’, and when her fingers finally slip through Sansa’s curls, between her lower lips, the relief is so sweet she could weep with it. 

She spreads her legs, the water rippling around her as Brienne leans forward. Her freckled face is hot against Sansa’s cheek, and Sansa clutches her knight’s arm, moving her hips in time with the easy caresses of those big fingers. Her other hand stays firm on Sansa’s breast, teasing the hard peak with frustrating lightness. Sansa’s climax builds in stages, with the shivering of her legs, the tightness in her stomach, her mind going free of all thought. The pleasure rushes upon her, and she feels like she might collapse if not for the support of Brienne’s arms.

Sansa turns around, kissing her knight ardently and with all the feeling in the world, sagging against her.

Brienne nuzzles their noses together. “Do you think that I might take you to bed now, my queen?”

She says it with a completely composed face, and somehow, drained as she is, Sansa finds the wherewithal to laugh. Of course Brienne would be the only one to know that nothing tires Sansa out like lovemaking.

“Yes you may, you sly creature. But only if you promise to stay there with me.”

There is a bit of a twitch in Brienne’s cheek, as if she is trying not to smile. She pulls Sansa from the water, sets her on her feet, and drapes her up in her furs before the cold has time to set in. Then, she gathers her up into her arms, like a maiden from a story. Sansa is no maid, though she has lain with no man, and they’ve found themselves in this position many times before, but Brienne is as gentle as the first time.

“Certainly, my queen. You have me, always.”


End file.
